Lontano dall'Orlo
by LaLyreDApollon
Summary: An architect, a defiant son, and an ancient tale of falling. {Kay!Verse. Giovanni's POV. Inspired by the myth of Daedalus and Icarus, as recounted in Ovid's "Metamorphoses".}
1. Lontano dall'Orlo

**I am so glad to be back! My exams are done, and I have promised myself to write until my dominant hand falls off xD I've had this idea since mid-April, and had a first draft planned, but I am so, so happy to be able to put it to... paper? pixels? anyway, to {blank} at last.**

 **This was supposed to be one lengthy oneshot, but I decided to make it a two part thing. Stick around for the second part, which will be uploaded within the following week (or so).**

 **Quick note regarding the Italian: I do not speak it, so if any of y'all native Italian speakers or learners notice any mistakes in the few phrases I've used please bring them to my attention. I've been using my French and Spanish to try to be sure that every sentence I've constructed makes sense, but they can only help up to a certain point. If you spot any mistakes, please tell me and I will correct them immediately. Thanks in advance uWu**

 **I'd like to thank my best friend and (strict) critic, Helen, for proofreading the first chapter, and for encouraging me to, quote on quote "GET DOWN TO WRITING" (all caps) when I told her what this particular story was about.**

 **Please R &R :)**

* * *

 _ **Part One: Lontano dall'Orlo**_ _ *****_

I feel like I am slowly being consumed by a deep, ingrained hate for the aggregate of beauty that our Earth has to offer as I grow older. This is a paramount defeat for me; if anything, I made a living by appreciating the beautiful and breathing life into them, observing as they grew from ideas that occupied a minuscule part of a minuscule cell of my brain to towering structures that never failed to impose and engrave their grandeur on the pair of eyes that admired them.

More often than not, those eyes were mine. I fail to believe that any other man but myself could experience the awe and fear that would sprout inside my chest whenever I glanced upon the lofty buildings whose construction I had overseen.

Indeed, watching your creation become something bigger than yourself can be unnerving. I was always beside myself with joy and terror whenever I saw the last stone being put into place. My dismay had nothing to do with fear of a collapse, no — I knew myself well enough to be sure that my plans were perfectly thought through.

I never really understood why this dread would always fester inside, like bile in my throat. Not until now, when I have grown to loathe even my children of stone and cement.

My old age is catching up with my mind. It is ineluctable that I become the man I perpetually abhorred becoming. One cannot escape from what he fears the most.

I fear the night now. I can never elude its grasp, which drags me through dark waters and pulls me under. They taste of salt, loneliness and sorrow. When I was but a hatchling of a man, I used to love the night — I saw no reason to hate it, always accompanied by a jolly swarm of friends, or a most engaging lover. I basked at the silence of the dark. It amplified my company's laughs, the moans of my _amante*_. Now it only echoes back my own silence.

So, I grew to loathe it.

I then swore to love the day. The sun's noble rays, the throbbing life it so plainly offered were gifts that I would be too ungrateful to not accept.

 _He ruined that, too._

He was flying too high. _Dangerously high._

I still remember that morning, when the sun was cracked open by my striking epiphany.

 _I see him climb his way up the planks, inspecting everything around him. Higher, higher still, he dares to reach the parts where the scaffolding is unreliable. I catch a derisive whisper behind me._

" _Il cocco_ * _'s got some stones"._

 _I have little regard for the deplorable nickname that my workers have given Erik. Perhaps I am unwilling to admit that they are right._

At the time, my attention was fixed on him alone. My most experienced men were hesitant to mount those boards, and the apprentices in Erik's level would bluntly refuse to do so unless I gave them a raise.

 _When I cry out for him to "scendi subito da lì*", he laughs._

He seldom laughed.

I taught the boy my craft, let him play around with my tools, like homespun toys; watched as wonders bloomed under his fingertips, saw the results of his genius greatly exceed those of my experience, the pervasive feeling of dread always nearby. Constantly watching, my gaze cast over him, my scrutiny making clear warnings of all that was beyond his reach. And he would laugh. And he never laughed. He did, only then.

 _Only now. On those planks._

It wasn't until that day that I understood that I had once again allowed my creation to eclipse me myself.

Disregarding his master was one thing, but merely laughing in the face of such danger was another.

I remember finding the quote from Ovid the night before.

" _At last, the wings were done_ ", he tells us, " _and Daedalus slipped them across Icarus' shoulders. "Take your flight between the heavens and the sea_. _" he said. "Always between the two. Steer where I lead the way_."

Fate can be ruthless, this much I know. The poet spun tales that have come to haunt my dreams. Tales that I had never had any reason to pay much heed to.

"Stay away from the edge." I had advised him that first day. _The old man's face was wet with tears as he chattered more fatherly advice to his son._

But the edge is a sun by another name, and it called to Erik like the blazing sphere in the sky did to the reckless Greek.

"Stay away from the edge."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, signore." _Beyond his father's lead, the wide sky was there to tempt him as he steered toward heaven._

When I was near him, my glorious Roman hometown metamorphosed into Crete. Wings grew on both our backs, and the Aegean expanded, vast, under us. Samos appeared on our left, and I could barely discern Delos and Calymne on our right.

I would hear him flap his wings next to me. The next moment, he'd be gone. I'd see a shadow loom above me, and snap my head heavenward. _The sun's rays assault my vision_ , _when I catch a glimpse of him._

 _He is smiling. He seldom smiles._

 _"Scendi subito da lì!" I hear myself roar, yet again. Without warning, the sea shifts into dry land. The sun elevates higher, or maybe I descend lower. My apprentice is still scaling the same rickety scaffolding that protests and creaks under his weight._

 _"Scendi subito da lì, maledizione*!" My workers have gathered around me. Some watch the boy in disbelief, while most stare at me like I am some special kind of madman._

 _"Signore, would you like me to bring him down?" Ignazio, the contractor, asks over my shoulder._

 _Our voices fail to discourage Erik's climb, not even by a bit. He ignores us, as if he's being invited into a foreign realm by some unworldy force, and deems it too discourteous to decline the invitation. And then:_

 _"Let him fall."_

 _"...What did you say, Pietro?" I glare at the audacious man that had come to stand by my side, gazing up at the boy on the planks._

 _"I said, let him fall, signore. He is stubborn, he is arrogant, the word "limit" simply does not exist in his vocabulary. He will be nothing more than a burden for the construction in the future. For God's sake, stop trying to protect the lad. It is pointless, signore."_

 _I look around, waiting for someone, anyone, to differ. I am met with a succession of hard stares._

 _"Nessuna disciplina*." Pietro continues, clicking his tongue, the disapproval in his voice plainly evident. "Let him burn, signore."_

 _My heart skips a beat at his words. My aged, feeble heels grow wings and I find myself running up the scaffolding, the boards groaning emphatically as I sprint across the path they form. I climb up the decks to save time, my weak, arthritic grip trying to stick to the rails. In a flash, I have reached the top, and Erik stands a few metres away from where I am, his back turned to me._

 _"Erik!" I bark._

 _He turns around. His eyes bug from behind the mask._

 _Unmoving, his stare fixes on something behind me._

 _"Bambino*, do you even hear a word I say?" I snarl._

 _Before I can process what is happening, I see him dash in my direction. The planks are shaking violently, and I feel his arms seizing my shoulders tightly before we plunge to the ground, ten metres below, the boards crashing down with us._

* * *

 _*  
(Lontano dall'Orlo (tr. Italian):_ Away from the Edge)  
 _amante:_ lover (fem.)  
 _cocco:_ pet (as in "teacher's pet")  
 _scendi subito da lì:_ get down from there immediately  
 _maledizione_ : dammit, damn you  
 _nessuna disciplina_ : no discipline (whatsoever)  
 _bambino_ : child (masc.)


	2. Vicino al Sole

**Dun dun, and done. Wooh, this was my first ever two-chapter fic (could just as easily have been a long one-shot but whatever). I actually finished this yesterday, and when I sat down to edit it today, I couldn't find it and I thought I'd lost it, but thank God I had accidentally saved it in the wrong folder. Also, this got pretty dark for some reason. I mean,** **huge TW: historical mentions of paedophilia/pederasty** **because I had to find something outrageous for Giovanni's men to gossip about and this seemed appropriate, given that there are loads of recorded cases of masters and apprentices of all crafts having such relationships. Still, "ew Angela" — I know, I know :/**

 **Um, that is all, same thing goes for the Italian as in the previous chapter.**

 **Please R &R :)**

* * *

 ** _Part Two: Vicino al Sole_** ** _*_**

 _He reaches the ground before me, and like a cat, he lands on his feet, while I collapse on top of him, making him lose his tentative balance. I get up immediately in fear that the boy's limbs might be crushed under my weight. Springing to my feet, I ignore the jolts of pain that tear through my muscles._

 _Erik coughs and shakes off some of the dust that has gathered in his hair with his hand. His palm touches his scalp, and he immediately hisses. I see blood. Sharp splinters of wood have penetrated the skin of his hands, embedded along the thin flesh of his fingertips._

 _"_ Merde!* _" I hear him swear under his breath in his native French._

 _"_ Moderi il linguaggio _,_ bambino* _." I moan as my back seethes from the scorching agony caused by the impact._

 _His eyes flare up._

 _"_ Il linguaggio _?" He bellows in his juvenile voice, a crack that he is quick to swallow back into his throat barely rising to his lips. "_ Ti preoccupi della profanità*? _"_

 _I only stare at him._ Ti preoccupi _. He never addressed me in the singular, even though I had always insisted that I did not mind._

 _"You could have killed us both!" He breathes, his index finger pointing to the disintegrated scaffolding._

 _"Erik,_ calmati* _-" I start to say, when all of a sudden, my back protests yet again with an audible crack, and my limbs deaden completely. I fall to the ground._

 _I see my men, who had only been observing me and my apprentice's quarrel in silence up until this point, rush to my aid. Erik does the same._

 _"_ Signore-" _he calls, but Ignazio shoves him to the side, and he falls on his hands and knees, hissing once again as his wounded hands scrape the ground._

 _"Erik!" I call back. "Somebody get him some bandages, he has splinters all over his palms!"_

 _"_ Si fotta* _." Pietro grunts as he and Matteo lift me in their arms and force me into a passing carrozza_ † _that Ignazio had halted in a rush. Post hoc, I learned that one of the horses had stepped on his right foot, leaving three of his fingers permanently paralysed in the process._

 _They give the driver my address, instructing him to take me home. Pietro promises to send a doctor._

 _"What about Erik?" I whisper as he closes the cab door._

 _"That boy is nothing but trouble,_ signore. _" Matteo calls behind him rigidly._

 _I glance back at the construction, my eyes searching for that troublesome boy with the splinters in his palms. He is nowhere to be seen._

 _The stabbing agony makes my head spin. I let myself fall back against the cold leather of the seat. The steady sound of galloping hooves lulls me to sleep, and I am quick to be engulfed in a sea of black._

* * *

 _I wake up in my bedroom some hours later. The curtains are still drawn back, and even though the skies outside are a muddy blue, a pallid ray of light manages to break in through the window. The gas lamp is unlit, so my chambers are left showered in this sickly glow._

 _"_ Buonasera*, signore _." In startlement, my head makes a swift ninety degree turn to the right_ , _when I hear Erik's voice a second time._

 _"No, over here, sir." I turn to the left side of my bed and see him sitting, tucked into himself, on the floor._

 _Remaining speechless is too tempting, for I have absolutely no idea what to say. "How long have you been sitting there?" I manage after a second of hesitation._

 _"Four hours signore, it's 9 o' clock. I was hesitant to even come back, but I figured you might need someone to take care of you. The doctor said that you suffered a few tendon injuries, which according to him is, and I quote, "_ niente di grave* _" but I still thought–"_

 _"Did you speak with him?"_

 _"The doctor? No. But I did listen in through the window as he spoke with Ignazio."_

 _"The window?"_

 _"I climbed on the oak,_ signore. _"_

 _I only blink in disbelief. "Let me see your hands." I continue, motioning for him to place them on mine._

 _He does as he's told, and spreads his palms for me to see. The splinters are no longer there, but there are prominent wounds all over._

 _"I removed them myself." He resumes._

 _"But you did not bind them?"_

 _"No, signore."_

 _"I keep clean bandages and some scissors in the drawer, over there." I point to the wooden cabinet across the room._

 _He nods and rises, his tall stature casting a morose shadow on the wall. As he searches through the drawer, carefully twisting his fingers so as to not use his injured palms, my gaze wanders around the room, until finally flumping to the floor next to my bed._

What in God's name is Ovid doing there?

 _"Erik?" I call._

 _"My reading through one of your volumes without proper permission will indubitably be deemed as arbitrary." He blandly testifies to my suspicion without as much as turning around._

How he knew I had noticed when his back was turned on me, I have yet to figure out.

 _"I apologise,_ signore _. You are aware that I would never, not in a million years, dare to tamper with your belongings. All I can say in my defence was that I found Daedalus and Icarus bookmarked, and the text was too beguiling not to read."_

 _"And why was that,_ bambino _?" I tilt my head to the side._

 _He swallows hard, finally turning around to face me as he circles his right hand with the ivory material. "I beg for forgiveness for what I did, and said, this morning, as well as for my most recent arbitrage. But more than anything, I beg that you forgive me for what is about to come out of my damnable mouth right now."_

 _"That being?" I raise an eyebrow._

 _"I reckoned that Ovid might have led you to this…" He pauses, weighing the words that lay at the end of his tongue, waiting to spill. "This transient bout of insanity." He concludes._

 _I keep my mouth clammed up._

 _"If you will." He adds in a murmur._

 _I shake my head, smiling. "You wouldn't be wrong to believe that."_

 _He stares at me in wonder. "I thought you would give me an earful, tell me to leave and never come back."_

 _"I would have, had you been wrong. You were right." I chuckle. I have broken the tradition of having him constantly leave me speechless. Now, it's his turn to be at a loss for words. "You were right, indeed_. _" I repeat, rising from the bed, my spine creaking, a sound akin to that of the defective scaffolding. The pain is still present, but less severe."But in assuming that I would kick you out over a statement that holds true simply because it hurts my own pride; no, that was where you were wrong."_

 _"You won't even scold me for disobeying you, embarrassing you in front of everyone? And what about the accident? What about_ il linguaggio _?" He raises one bandaged hand in astoundment._

 _"I have yet to figure out whether I should. I have to dwell on whether it was you who was reckless or me who was overprotective." I cross my arms over my chest._

 _"A little bit of both." He contends._

 _"That's what I thought."_

 _"A stalemate, then?" He moves one step closer to me._

 _I nod. "Besides, had I not climbed up there to get you to come down, I doubt that the scaffolding would have collapsed. You barely weigh four hundred_ etti† _."_

 _"I see." He only looks at me in disbelief._

 _His left hand is still naked._

 _"Come here." I sit in an armchair and beckon to him to sit on the stool opposite me. He obeys, and I wrap the bandage around his palm._

 _"So, what did you think of it?"_

 _"_ Cosa? _*" He starts_ , _as if brought back from a daze._

 _"Ovid. What did you think of him?" I explain._

 _"Oh." He mumbled. "I read the whole thing. I found it quite droll, really. I can't help but ponder whether the old man wept over the death of his son or the failure of his invention."_

 _"So you liked it then?" I query, hastily adding; "Do tell me if it's too tight." as I pull the thick white strip over and around itself, preparing to cut it._

 _"It was good, although I still favour Dante over all your deceased compatriots,_ signore _." he giggles. "And it's fine, you may cut it."_

 _"Of course you do." I laugh._

 _He stays silent as I cut the bandage, until; "I heard what Matteo said. He is right, I truly_ am _nothing but trouble. I should stay away from the construction. I am unwanted there. A pariah."_

 _"Erik, they are just jealous. You should pay no heed to them. They don't understand that I favour you because I've seen what your mind can do, they fancy that-" I pause before I terrify him enough to distance himself forever, owing to my workers' lewd hearsay._

 _"I know what they fancy,_ signore _." He picks up my sentence where I left off, not daring to finish it for me._

 _I can't see myself, but I am convinced that my face has turned pale. "You do?"_

 _"I'm not naive, sir. Don't fool yourself like that."_

 _"No,_ bambino _, I don't think you naive-"_

 _"Let us not discuss this any further." He stammers, pulling away, his voice cold with unease._

 _"Yes, let us conclude that the only Greeks we resemble are the overprotective father and his daredevil of a son._ † _" I try to shift his attention, introducing a hint of hilarity to the conversation. Nevertheless, the suggestion of pederasty is something I know won't be easy for him to look past. I know, because despite being wise enough to disregard abominable rumours, it disturbs me just as much._

 _"You are not my father,_ signore _." He states in a distant tone, his eyes fixed on me. "You will never be my father."_

 _He has the same apprehensive aura that surrounded him when I first took him in. I have made him uncomfortable. I can almost see the darkness rise behind him, and I know he relishes in its embrace._

 _"Indeed, that may be true." I offer. "But you will always be my son."_

 _He springs to his feet, bandaged hands glued to his sides, calculating eyes narrowing. "Goodnight,_ signore _." He proclaims_ , _and backs away before turning and walking out the door. I hear him run down the stairs to the basement, banging the door alarmingly loud. His message couldn't be any clearer; "stay away"._

That was the day that I stepped over the line. I came too close, and he regressed to his former state of detachment.

I could practically feel the darkness claw at his soul, while the light of his ambition pulled at his sleeve with equal vigour, one just as seductive as the other. _Just as deadly._

If only he could balance the forces inside him like he did with his weight on those planks.

I already despised the dark. His Icarian mentality forced me to turn from the light.

I am convinced that Daedalus would be willing to keep his son and himself locked up in the airless Cretan dungeons of Minos until they were but a pile of rotten bones, if it meant saving him from burning. I know he would. _I would._

 _I would_ , if it meant protecting him. I was willing to dive into the loathsome dark with him, _for_ him. For he taught me to fear the sun and its reach.

I remember standing before my window, staring intently at the crisp line of invading light tearing through the shadows on the floor. I would let the curtain conceal the golden gleam, then pull it back again, never quite achieving the balance I wanted for him.

At my lowest point, I remember gritting my teeth, whispering; _"None of you shall have him."_

But it did not matter. He soon left.

Years later, and here I am, once again seated before my window on a dewy morning, very much like the one that found him climbing the end of that scaffolding. I let the curtains fall, allowing myself to be enclosed in darkness. I return to pull them back, a few minutes later it seems, and the skies have turned black.

I keep Ovid at the back of my bookcase, now. Somehow, the accursed volume still manages to slither between the other books and make it to the front. I often find it ostentatiously basking at the light that shines in through the glass, the gold lettering on the spine gleaming in its caress. I'll scratch my head and place it where I thought I already had, only for it to reappear where it shouldn't soon after.

I like to blame my old age. _I like to think I am mad._

I am not. I am but a man who made a promise and was unable to keep it. I swore to be his shelter, have him sheathed under my wing, safe from the world. But I could never balance light and darkness.

I tried. _I failed._

In the end, he burned. Like an ignited candle wick, _he burned._

And me? I was once again left alone with my silence, in the night I so loathed.

* * *

*  
 _Vicino al Sole_ (tr. Italian): Close to the Sun  
 _merde_ (tr. French): shit  
 _moderi il linguaggio_ (tr. Italian): watch the language  
 _ti preoccupi della profanità?:_ you worry about profanity? (second-person singular)  
 _calmati_ : calm down  
 _si fotta_ : fuck him  
 _buonasera_ : good afternoon  
 _niente di grave_ : nothing serious  
 _cosa?_ : what?

†  
 _carrozza_ : the italian equivalent of a hansom cab

 _etti_ : italian unit of weight (400 etti=88 lbs or 39 kg)

 _pederasty_ : The ancient Greeks were notorious for their leniency on paedophilic relationships between adult males and teenage boys. In saying that the characters of Daedalus and Icarus are the only thing they share with the Greeks, Giovanni suggests that he does not seek such a relationship with Erik (and he probably doesn't approve of such a thing, either).


End file.
